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COPYRIGHT DEPOSE* 




















































































J 


YON-DOO-SHAH-WE-AH 


(Nubbins) 

BY 

/ 

HEN-TOH 

(Wyandot) 

c Wal bcr jTJcrtrarti Y'f. O. a 


HABLOW PUBLISHING CO. 
OKLAHOMA CITY 
1924 




V£-55A* 

.fVr 5 ^ b 

\<VfcA 


Copyright, 1924 
By Harlow Publishing Co. 


J 


. APR 18 1924 

©Cl A S1 5100 & 


'‘Vvt.'V 



CONTENTS 


' Page 

O-SEE-o. Foreword 

Yon-Doo-Shah-We-Ah . 1 

The Calumet . 3 

My Fren' . 5 

Injun Summa'. 7 

The Seasons . 10 

Fishin' ... 14 

Fire.*. 17 

Smokin' . 20 

Big Tree's Horse.’. 23 

A Borrowed Tale.. 26 

The Warrior's Plume. 31 

A Mojave Lullaby. 34 

Coyote . 36 

A Desert Memory. 38 

An Indian Love Song. 42 

A Wyandot Cradle Song. 44 

Wyandot Names. 46 

Huntin' . 48 

Triplets . 51 

Sleep it Summa' Time. 54 

August . 56 

Weengk . 58 

Song of a Navajo Weaver. 60 

Arrow-Heads. 63 

Agency Police I. 66 

Agency Police II .. 70 

Agency Police III. 71 

















































“O-SEE-O.” 

To those who claim by heritage and 
blood 

The undisputed, inviolate right 
To call themselves the TRUE AMERI¬ 
CANS; 

Whose ancestors were of whatever 
tribe, 

Of Choctaw, Cherokee, or Wyandot, 
Miami, Ottawa, or Ojibwa, 

Or Shawnee, Seneca, Modoc, or Creek, 
Quapaw, Sioux, Cheyenne, Peoria; 

To all of these, and to all other tribes, 

I dedicate the poems written here. 

Hen-toh. 


Wyandot Reserve, 
Ottawa County , 
Oklahoma. 


Note—“O-see-O," a Cherokee word of greeting. 



















“YON-DOO-SHAH-WE-AH.” 

“Yon-doo-shah-we-ah!” 

’At’s how they sed it, 
Wyandot, nub-bins; 

It’s little’ fellas, 

Corn, his ears. 

01’ times, ol’ womans 
Braid ’em long string corns, 
White an’ red an’ blue, 

Hang it high in lodge 
Fo’ winta’ times. 

“Yon-doo-shah-we-ah”, 

Don’ braid, don’ hang high; 














Jus’ throw it one side 
An’ braid ’em nice corns, 
To hang it high. 

But when he’s done braid 
All them fine big ear, 

He’s take it nub-bins, 

He’s shell ’em, an’ made 
Oh, good hominy! 


“Yon-doo-sliah-we-ah,” Wyandot word meaning nubbins. Pro¬ 
nounce each syllable just as it is spelled; or rather just as each 
would be pronounced in English, with a slight accent on “doo" 
and a more marked accent on “we."—Hen-toh 



Two 


















THE CALUMET. 

Sent from the white lands of the North, 

Emblem of peace and brotherhood, 

Its first fruits ever are offered 

To The Great Spirit, then to the Sun; 

To our Mother, the Earth; and the Wa¬ 
ters; 

To the North, to the South, the East, 
the West; 

Then to each other. 

A prayer goes to the One Great Spirit, 
thus; 

Oh that the whole wide World could now 

Accept the Redman’s ancient symbol, 



Three 













Off’ring its incense to the Universe; 
And blot out fierce, wild war’s red stain, 
Bringing Good-will to earth again 
With Peace, white Peace. 

1918. 



Four 












MY FREN’. 

To J. W. C. 

On his leaving for the Army during the great war. 

You my fren’, no diff’ence what say, 
anyone, 

If I seen you now, or don’ see fo’ years. 
You know reason, t’aint what I done, 
You could look my eye, don’ seen it 
tears, 

When you sed it: ‘Good-bye’. 

You my pardner, you sed it one time, 
It’s 1-o-n-g ’go, but me, I don’ fo’get; 

If you go flat bust, an’ I got one dime, 
I know wha’ you could fin’ nickel, I bet, 
Or mebbe ten cent. 








It’s jus’ that way all time, me an’ you, 

We bin know’d each otha’ how you say, 
well. 

I don’ care fo’ hundred snakes what you 
do; 

Even you tell it me: “You go to hell,” 

I could do it, e-a-s-y. 

You come back war-trail, it’s be jus’ 
same, 

Kin’ a smile and sed it: “You my pard- 
ner yet?” 

I jus’ look at you an’ sed it you name, 

Mebbe so wink it, then sed it: “You 
bet!” 

I don’ fo'gotten nothin’. 



Six 















INJUN SUMMA’. 

You seen it that smoky, hazy, my frien’, 
It’s hangin’ all ’roun’ on edges of sky? 
In moon of failin’ leaves, ’at’s when 
It’s always come, an’ jus’ floatin’ by. 


You know, my fren’, what’s make it 
that kin’? 

It’s spirits o’ home-sick warriors come; 
An’ somewha’s his lodge fires all in 
line 

Jus’ near as could get it to his oP home. 

I think he’s like it, Happy Huntin’ 
Groun’, 



&ere* 











It’s mus’ ta be a nice, eva’thin’ ova’ 
tha’; 

But, mebbe so, fo’ little’ bit, jus’ kin’ a 
look ’roun’ 

When year it’s get ol’, an’ days an 
sky it’s fair, 

He’s kin’ a like to wanda’ back ol’ 
huntin’ groun’. 

But don’t want a stay. No, cause it’s 
all gone, 

Beaver, Bear, Buffalo, all; it’s can’t 
be foun’; 

Anyhow, makes good dream fo’ him, 
’bout eva’ one. 



Eight 









So he’s come back an’ make it his lodge 
fire, 

All ’roun’ ova’ tha’ on edges of sky; 

An’ it’s nice wa’m sun, an’ you don’ get 
tire, 

Cause it’s 01’ Injun Summa’-time, ’at’s 
why. 



Nine 

















THE SEASONS. 

What sed it 01’ Injuns ’bout a spring¬ 
time? 

Oh it’s pritty girl, it’s cornin’ from a 
south, 

All dress’ up in fine white buckskins. 
He don’ walk, he’s jus’ dance, 

He don’ look, he’s jus’ glance 
’Roun’ at eva’body, pleasant, 

Jus’ like happy; 

An’ he’s bring it nice bowl o’ straw¬ 
berry, 

An’ jus’ scatta’ eva’wha’. 

What sed it 01’ Injuns ’bout a summa- 
time? 



Ten 












Oh it’s good woman followed that 
girl, 

An’ it’s dress like a nice, jus’ all kin’ a 
green. 

He don’ dance, jus’ kin’ a float, 
Like on wata’, seen it, boat, 

An’ jus’ smile ’roun’ eva-wha’ 
goes, 

Jus’ like good; 

An’ he’s bring it string o’ squaw-corn, 
An’ jus’ pile up eva’wha’. 

What sed it 01’ Injuns ’bout a fall¬ 
time? 

Oh it’s young man comes from kin’ 
o’ west, 



Eleven 














Huntin’ shirt an’ leggin’ kin’ o’ color 
brown. 

He’s straight jus’ like an arrow, 
An’ his fringes color, ‘yarrow’. 

He’s got laugh in eye an’ it’s a 
keen, 

Jus’ like brave; 

An’ he’s bring it bunch o’ wil’ grape 
an’ acorn, 

An’ jus’ hang up eva’ wha’. 

What sed it OP Injuns ’bout a winta- 
time? 

Wooh! It’s o-P man, he’s cornin’ 
from a north, 



Twelve 










From Ian’ of Great White Rabbit, ’at’s 
his home. 

His long robe it’s shine an’ 
glis’en, 

You could heard it clink, you 
lis’en, 

When he’s walk kin’ o’ slow 
Jus’ like tired. 

He’s bring lots o’ ice an’ plenty snow, 
An’ jus’ drift up eva’wha’. 



Thirteen 







FISHIN’. 


Eva’ fishin’ much? It’s good. 

Sunshine in sky, shade in a wood, 
Down on riva’ bank jus’ wait an’ wish 
I could ketch ’im hurry, that dam fish; 
Take ’im home, cook ’im, an’ eat 
’im. 

Sometimes it’s ketch ’im right now, 
Sometimes don’ ketch ’im all day; 

But Injun he’s sure know how 
He could ketch ’im a’right, ’notha way. 

Long ’go ’fore whiteman, he’s come 
here, 

01’ Injun use to fishin’ with spear. 



fourteen 








That kin’ o’ spear it’s made o’ stone; 
He’s got hook too, made o’ bone; 

But he could ketch ’em plenty fish 
—sometime. 


Sometime he’s fishin’ on a shore, 
Sometime he’s fishin’ in canoe; 

Some day he’s ketch ’em plenty more, 
Some day it’s jus’ nothin’ do. 


Now-days he’s got littl’ stick, green an' 
red, 

L-o-n-g line, he’s wind it up, ’at’s how 
he sed. 

It’s tie on end littl’ fish made o’ wood, 



Fifteen 










Lot’s o’ hook, seems to me it’s no good; 
But he’s sure ketch ’im b-i-g one, 
bass. 


That bass he’s like Injun, mebbe so, 
Whiteman’s fool ’im easy, since long ’go. 
Spec’ so, dam fool, bofe of it, 

Cause you can’t fool ’im, whiteman, 
littl’ bit. 



Sixteen 







FIRE. 


I think Injun like it betta’ ’an anythin’, 
fire, 

But I don’ jus’ know why. 

Mebbe so it’s cause ’at smokes go high, 
Way up towa’ds a sky, 

An’ could carried it message, higher 
an’ higher, 

’Til He’s got it, Great Spirit. 



Seventeen 








When he’s smoke it, Peace Pipe, any- 
wha’ 

Council, or in lodge, 

Smokes curl ’roun’ jus’ kin’ a like it’s 
dodge 

An’ gatha’ up eva’body’s mes¬ 
sage, 

An’ carried it off, jus’ way up tha’, 

’Til He’s heard it, Great Spirit. 

Long ’go, sometime, he’s want it sen’ 
word 

His frens way off, ’notha’ wha. 

He’s fin’ it high place, an’ tha’ 

Make it smokes go straight in air, 



Eighteen 






An’ his frens, it’s like they heard, 

What he’s ask Him, Great Spirit. 

An’ Injun, his folks, time come when 
he die, 

He’s bury him somewha’, not far, 
An’ on grave, ’bout time it’s shine star, 
He’s make it littl’ fire. What for? 
It’s make it light fo’ soul on road, ’at’s 
why, 

To place wha’ He’s call ’im, 
Great Spirit. 



Nineteen 











SMOKIN’. 

Say, he don’ smokin’, jus’ to smokin’, 
01’ Injun, long ’go, 

Like he’s do eva’body, eva’wha’ now 
days. 

Jus’ puff, puffin’ so. 

Long ’go, Injun’, he’s thinkin an’ 
thinkin’ 

’Bout word he’s want to sent, 

To Great Spirit, somethin’ it’s good one 
To help ’im, what it’s meant; 

Then he’s smokin’ plenty. 

He don’ sed nothin’, jus’ smokin’ an’ 
think 



Twenty 









Jus’ ’bout that what he’s want. 
He’s do this way long time, himse’f, 
’Til he’s sure it’s that way. 

Don’ tole nobody ’bout it but jus’ hese’f, 
’Cause too much talk no good. 
Whiteman he’s smart, but not foun’ 
that out yet, 

’Spec’ so no b’lieve it, if he could. 

“Put it in you pipe an’ smoke it”, 

I hear ’im, whiteman say. 

It’s jus’ how he’s do, 01’ Injun, 

Meb’ so, ’at’s how he pray. 

’Cause he don’ like it to talk to Great 
Spirit, 



Twenty-one 








An’ tole ’IM it, what mus’ do, 

So he’s think it, an’ smoke carry 
thinkin’ 

Eva’wha’, up wha’ looks blue. 



Twenty-two 











BIG TREE’S HORSE. 

01’ Big Tree, he’s bin down this way, 
He’s tole me ’bout it, his horse. 

It’s kin’ a “baw-ky”, how you say? 

Jus’ stan’in’, won’t go, of course. 

He say it’s all a time makes ’im mad, 
That horse, ’cause it’s don’ want go; 
Sometime he’s want a work prit’ bad, 
An’ that horse he’s stan’ jus’ so. 

Otha’ day, he’s plow in squaw-corn 
patch, 

’Long side big road, down tha’. 

That horse jus’ stan’, don’ move one 
scratch; 



Twenty-thm 











Big Tree, he’s cuss ’im but horse don’ 
ca\ 

By um by it’s cornin’ down a road, 

That place, Big Tree, he’s plow, 

Big noise, it’s what you call ’im, Foad, 
Lots a rattle, it’s oP one, now. 

It’s come right wha’ he’s stan’, that 
horse. 

He’s jump, Big Tree heap holla’ whoa; 
That horse he’s plenty scare of course, 
Don’ lis’n to Big Tree, jus’ keep on go. 

Big Tree he’s go prit’ hurry up too, 
’Cause it’s lines tie togetha, roun’ back. 



Twenty-four 










He’s pull on lines, but that don’ do, 

He’s jus’ got to folia’ in track. 

He’s tell it, Big Tree, an’ he’s say: 
“Horse heap dam’ fool, that’s the one; 
Sometime he’s go, sometime he’s stay, 
He’s jus’ too ’nuff or too none.” 



Twenty-five 











A BORROWED TALE. 

Say, you know that time that 01’ Otta’ 
He’s slide down that mount’in from 
th’ sky? 

Well, he’s wored it jus’ all a fur off 
his tail, 

Jus’ smoof, an’ skin looks ugly an’ a’ 

dry. 

He’s sure feel sorrow, ’cause it’s al¬ 
ways bin, 

He’s kin’ o’ proud o’ that tail jus’ all 
a time, 

’Cause it’s always bin cova’ jus’ nice 
sof’ fur, 



Twenty-six 










- ?sr 'i 


An’ it’s looks good draggin’ long be¬ 
llin’. 

Don’ got none, nobody, ’at looks so fine, 

’Less it’s Mus’rat, his jus’ ’bout nex’ 
best; 

He’s sure feelin’ prit’ bad, ’at 01’ Otta’, 

’Cause now his tail it’s look bad, 
’mongst th’ rest. 

He’s jus’ stay at home, don’ went no- 
wha’ 

’Cause he’s shame how it’s spoil it, 
’at tail; 

It’s look so bad, he’s think eva’body 
laughin’, 



Twenty-seven 












If they seen ’im cornin’ down a trail. 


But it’s “Rah-shu” come ’long an tole 
’im, 

’Bout big council, down a lake, he’s 
haf to go; 

He don’ sed it nothin’, jus’ like 
thinkin’, 

Then he’s start it, like he’s know what’s 
goin’ to do. 

Mus’rat, he’s not b’long to that big 
council, 

So 01’ Otta’ he’s go to Mus’rat, his 
lodge. 

That fella’ he’s sittin’ outside singin’ 



Twenty-eight 










But when he’s see 01’ Otta’, he’s dodge, 
In a wata’. 

01’ Otta’ couldn’ seen ’im nowha’, 
Mus’rat, 

So he’s holla’: “Ho’ my fren’, I like 
spoke to you now; 

I like to borrow’d you’ tail, to wear big 
council; 

We could swap ’til I come back, I tole 
you how, 

Mus’rat, he’s good fella’, so he’s sed it, 
“A’right!” 

An’ he’s swap with him his tail, that 
01’ Otta’ 



Twe&ty-nina 








By um by he’s look behin’ ’im, see that 
tail 

An’ he’s so scare, 

He’s jus’ hurry tumble ova’ in a wata’ 
To hide it that tail. 

01’ Otta’ he’s go down a road, kin’ a 
chuckle, feelin’ good; 

It’s look good, that Mus’rat tail, 
draggin’ tha’ behin’. 

So he’s go to that big council, jus’ 
feelin’ kin’ o’ proud; 

But he neva’ did gif back to him, 
his tail, that Mus’rat, 

An’ he’s eva’ since stay in a wata’- 
Mus’rat. 



Thirty 












THE WARRIOR’S PLUME. 

On the plains and in the vales of 
Oklahoma, 

Grew a flower of the Tyrian hue, 
The color that is loved by the Redman, 
That tells him light and life, 

And love are true. 

Long ago it flamed in beauty on the 
prairies, 

Lighting reaching vistas with its 
glow; 

Ere advent of the whiteman and his 
fences, 

Told the care-free, roving hunter 
He must go. 



Thirty-on* 











The throng, the herd, and greed have 
madly trampled 

Prairie, woodland, valley, and the 
height; 

Crushed the feath’ry flower and rudely 
blighted 

Its pride and life and beauty, 

And its light. 

Today ’tis found in silent glades and 
meadows 

Where by twos and threes it greets 
the May. 

Like the scattered braves who loved 
its color. 



Thirty-two 








It has passed, been trodden out 
Along the way. 

As the oriflamme it flaunted through 
past ages 

Went to gladden the fairness of 
the earth; 

So the greatness of the Indian will 
linger 

In the land that loves them both 
And gave them birth. 


Note: The Scarlet Painted Cup was called by the 
Wyandots, the Warrior’s Plume. 



Thirty-itor* 






A MOJAVE LULLABY. 

Sleep, my little man-child, 

Dream-time to you has come. 

In the closely matted branches 
Of the mesquite tree, 

The mother-bird has nestled 
Her little ones; see 
From the ghost-hills of your fathers, 
Purpling shadows eastward crawl, 
While beyond the western sky-tints 
pale, 

As twilight spreads its pall. 

The eastern hills are lighted, 

See their sharp peaks burn and glow, 



Thirty-four 










With the colors the Great Sky-Chief 
Gave your father for his bow. 

Hush my man-child; be not frighted, 
’Tis the father’s step draws nigh. 

O’er the trail along the river, 

Where the arrow-weeds reach high 
Above his dark head, see 
He parts them with his strong hands, 
As he steps forth into view. 

He is coming home to mother, 

Home to mother and to you. 

Sleep my little man-child, 

Daylight has gone. 

There’s no twitter in the branches, 
Dream-time has come. 



Thirty-fir# 










COYOTE. 

Yo-ho, Little Medicine Brother in gray, 

Yo-ho, I am list’ning to your call 

As it comes from the edge of th’ 
chapparral, 

And I wonder, what is that you say. 

Now your voice is faint, it sounds far 
away. 

Are you telling of the coming of 
friends? 

Or do you say that the bison-herd 
wends 

Hitherward, is distant but a day? 



Thirty-six 






Now your notes are broken, sharp, and 
clear, 

Warning of the coming of the foe; 

Of their warriors and their spears I 
must know, 

And must reckon by your yelps if 
they’re near. 

When your tones quaver low like a 
child, 

I know that gaunt famine cometh 
nigh; 

And you shiver on your hummock 
closely by, 

As you scent the grim, gray nor¬ 
ther wild. 



Thirty-«even 










A DESERT MEMORY. 

Lonely, open, vast and free, 

The dark’ning desert lies; 

The wind sweeps o’er it fiercely, 
And the yellow sand flies. 

The tortuous trail is hidden, 

Ere the sand-storm has passed 
With all its wild, mad shriekings, 
Borne shrilly on its blast. 

Are they fiends or are they demons 
That wail weirdly as they go, 
Those hoarse and dismal cadences, 
From out their depths of woe? 

Will they linger and enfold 
The lone trav’ler in their spell, 



Thirty-eight 








Weave ’round him incantations, 
Brewed and bro’t forth from their hell? 
Bewilder him and turn him 
From the rugged, hidden trail, 

Make him wander far and falter, 

And tremblingly quail 

At the desert and the loneliness 

So fearful and so grim, 

That to his fervid fancy, 

Wraps in darkness only him? 

The wind has spent its fierce wild wail, 
The dark storm-pall has shifted, ~ 
Forth on his sight the stars gleam pale 
In the purpling haze uplifted. 



Thirty-nine 














And down the steep trail, as he lists, 
He hears soft music stealing; 

It trembling falls through filmy mists, 
From rock-walls faint echoes pealing. 

Whence comes this mystic night-song 
With its rhythm wild and free, 

With its pleading and entreaty 
Pouring forth upon the sea 
Of darkness, vast and silent, 

Like a tiny ray of hope 

That oft-times comes to comfort 

When in sorrow’s depths we grope? 

’Tis the An-gu, the Kat-ci-na, 

’Tis the Hopi’s song of prayer, 



Forty 










That in darkness wards off danger, 
When ’tis breathed in the air; 

Over desert, butte, and mesa, 

It is borne out on the night, 
Dispelling fear and danger, 

Driving evil swift a-flight. 



Forty -on* 










AN INDIAN LOVE SONG. 


Light o’ the lodge, how I love thee, 
Light o’ the lodge, how I love thee, 
Mianza, my wild-wood fawn! 

To wait and to watch for thy passing. 
On hill-top I linger at dawn. 

Glimmer of morn, how I love thee, 
Glimmer of mom, how I love thee! 

My flute to the ground now I fling, 
As you tread the steep trail to the 
spring, 

For thy coming has silenced my song. 

Shimmer of moon on the river, 

Sheen of soft star on the lake! 













Moonlight and starlight are naught; 
Their gleam and their glow is ne’er 
fraught 

With such love-light as falls from thine 
eyes. 



Forty-three 







A WYANDOT CRADLE SONG. 

Hush thee and sleep, little one, 

The feathers on thy board sway to 
and fro; 

The shadows reach far downward in 
the water 

The great old owl is waking, day 
will go. 

Rest thee and fear not, little one, 
Flitting fireflies come to light you 
on your way 

To the fair land of dreams, while in 
the grasses 

The happy cricket chirps his merry 
lay. 



Forty-four 












Tsa-du-meh watches always o’er her 
little one. 

The great owl cannot harm you, 
slumber on 

’Till the pale light comes shooting from 
the eastward, 

And the twitter of the birds says 
night has gone. 


Hi-a-stah, Wyandot for father. 
Tsa-du-meh, Wyandot for Mother. 



Fony-fiv* 











WYANDOT NAMES 

“O-he-zhuh”! ’Ats how sed it, Wyan- 
dots; 

“O-hee-oh”! ’At’s how say, Frenchman; 
“O-hi-o”! ’At’s how sed it, Long 
Knives; 

’An’ it’s mean, beautiful riva’. 

“To-roon-toh”! ’At’s what say, ol’ 
Wyandots; 

“To-ron-toh”! ’At’s what call it, 
French; 

“To-ron-to”! ’At’s what say, British; 
’An’ it’s mean, great rock 
standing. 



Forty-six 












“Sci-non-to”! It’s that way in Wyan¬ 
dot; 

“Sci-yun-toh”! ’At’s what sed, French; 
“Sci-o-to”! ’At’s how sed Long Knives; 
’An’ it’s mean, plenty deer. 



Forty-seven 









HUNTIN’ 

Win’ it’s in a south, 

Kin’ a cloudy in a sky. 

Good time to huntin’ 

Spec’ I go by urn by. 

Looks kin’ a smoky 
All ’roun a edge, 

Spec’ could fin’ it, rabbit, 
Down tha’ ’long a hedge. 

’Way down a Sycamo’, 

Wha’ that ridge look blue, 
You could fin’ it buck o’ doe, 
Oh, fifty years ’go. 



Forty-eight 








An’ ’way cross that valley, 
Wha’ that timba thicken, 
Early in a mornin’ 

Lots a pra’rie chicken. 

Ova’ that long ridge, 

Wha’ sky seem kin’ a murky, 
You could hear ’em callin’ 
Plenty big wil’ turkey. 

Duck, down on Gran’ Riva’ 
Flyin’ looks like cloud, 
Sometime you could heard ’im, 
He’s quack plenty loud. 



Forty-nine 









Sometime come wiP pige’un, 
He’s fly two three day, 

Must a be flP milli’un 
’Fo he’s all gon ’way. 

Oh, lots a games them days. 
You could prit’ nea’ grab it. 
Now, can jus’ go down a road 
An’ mebbe so fin’ rabbit 



Fifty 









TRIPLETS 

It’s in Ohio, Shawnee town, all same 
time they bom: 

Te-cum-tha, La-lee-wah-see-ka, an’ 
littl’ ’notha one. 

He’s die that ’notha one, jus’ when 
he’s bom, 

That las’ one, poo’h littl’ boy. 

That fatha’ that motha’, both Sha-wah- 
no-ro-noh, 

They b’long that band what come 
from fa’ south, 

Come back to oP huntin’ grounds an’ 
they own peoples, 

Cause Injun always like do that 
way; 



Fifty-one 












But got none huntin’ grounds, 
now. 


Great mans them two, Te-cum-tha, 
La-lee-wah-see-ka, 

Great chief, warriors, leader of all 
they peoples. 

That las’ one, he’s Shawnee Prophet, 
An’ he’s see what’s goin’ do white- 
mans. 

Te-cum-tha he’s great warrior; 
La-lee-wah-see-ka, 

He’s big leader, always think of 
many things; 

But shucks! it’s too many whitemans. 



Fifty-two 






Two mouse can’t eat it big corn¬ 
field, 

An’ it’s too many whitemans, 
yet. 

Mebbe so he’s live otha’ one, poo’h 
littl’ fella’, 

Three of it could done mo’ betta’ 
’an jus’ two; 

But leva, min’, I guess no use, cause 
whitemans, 

He’s jus’ want what Injuns got yet; 

An’ he ain’ got it much, eitha’ 


Tecumtha (ordinary English form Te- 
cnmseh) and the Shawnee Prophet, were 
two of triplets, the third dying at birth. 



Fifty-three 








SLEEP IT SUMMA’ TIME 

Eva’ sleep it out a’ doors, you, 

Just on the groun’ ? It’s you’ motha'. 
Could look up at sky, it’s kinda’ blue, 
little sta’s look at each otha, 

And wink ’em little bit, 

Aint it? 

Wonda’ what made it, all them sta’? 
’Spec’ it’s little bits of sun broke it 
off; 

'Cause he’s run fas’, and he’s go fa', 
And ’spec’ sometimes the road’s 
mighty rough. 

Might be that kin’, 

Aint it? 



Fifty-four 















Sometimes little breeze, he’s blow cool. 
Feel good, make it f-i-n-e sleep it 
I like that kin’, I don’t fool; 

Fella’ got sof’ bed could keep it. 
Don’t want that kin’, me, 

Aint it? 

Them fella’s bug what a singin’ 

Up in a tree, go siz-z-z, 

Soun’s like a nice, that ringin’; 

Make it good sleep; gee whizz! 

I could sleep it summa’ time, 
Aint it? 



Fifty-fir* 










AUGUST 

’Bout come daylight, it’s sky kin’ a blue, 

An’ all ’roun’ edges, mo’ blue an’ 
smokey; 

It’s kin’ a chilly col’, and’ it’s shiva’, you 

When you jus’ move ’roun’ kin’ a pokey. 

Hills 'way off, it’s look kin’ a nice, 

An’ you jus’ like to stan’ an’ look 

Once fa’ as you could, an’ mebbe so, 
twice, 

Seems jus’ like picture in a book. 

Only picture, it couldn’ make it that 
good, 



Fifty-Six 









’Cause Great Spirit, He’s make it that 
one; 

You could see wha’s riva’, valley, an a 
wood, 

Ova, tha’ wha’ he’s cornin’ up, son. 

By um by, when sun, he’s get up 
straight, 

It’s a h-o-t, you don’ shiva’, jus’ want 
a laid 

On a nice sof’ grasses down tha’ by th’ 
gate, 

Unda’ big black-jack trees, in a shade, 
’Aint it? 



Fifty-seren 










“W E E N G K” 

“Weengk, he’s lit’l fella’ make you sleep 
it, 

You can’t seen ’im, you eye too big. 

He’s hidin’ eva’ wha’ an’ he’s keep it 

Dance all a time, what you call it,—jig. 

He’s carry lit’l war-club, hit ’em on 
head, 

Eva’body, anywha’, make ’em sleepy 
come, 

You can’t stayed wake’em, go jus’ like 
dead, 

An’ Weengk fin’ ’notha’ fella’, hit him 
some. 



Fifty-eight 










He’s you fren’, that Weengk, ’at’s a 
fac’, 

Eva’body got to sleep it, now an’ then; 

But mebbe so, he’s jump it on you back, 

When you hunt it, an’ jus’ got to shoot 
’gen. 

It’s bad lucks that one, deer run ’way, 

Cause can’t shoot it good if make feel 
lazy, 

But that fella, he’s come, jus’ any time 
a day, 

An’ you sure want sleep it like you 
crazy. 

Note: “Weengk” is the Odjibwa Spirit of Sleep. 



Fifty-nine 










A SONG OF A NAVAJO WEAVER 
By 

Hen-toh. 

For ages long, my people have been 
Dwellers in this land; 

For ages viewed these mountains, 
Loved these mesas and these sands, 
That stretch afar and glisten, 
Glimmering in the sun 
As it lights the mighty canons 
Ere the weary day is done. 

Shall I, a patient dweller in this 
Land of fair blue skies, 

Tell something of their story while 
My shuttle swiftly flies? 

As I weave I’ll trace their journey, 
Devious, rough and wandering, 



Sixty 







Ere they reached the silent region 
Where the night stars seem to sing. 
When the myriads of them glitter 
Over peak and desert waste, 
Crossing which the silent runner and 
The gaunt co-yo-tees haste. 

Shall I weave the zig-zag pathway 
Whence the sacred lire was bom; 
And interweave the symbol of the God 
Who brought the com—- 
Of the Rain-god whose fierce anger 
Was appeased by sacred meal, 

And the trust that my brave people 
In him evermore shall feel? 

All this perhaps I might weave 
As the woof goes to and fro, 



Sixty-one 









Wafting as my shuttle passes, 

Humble hopes, and joys and care, 
Weaving closely, weaving slowly, 
While I watch the pattern grow; 
Showing something of my life: 

To the Spirit God a prayer. 
Grateful that he brought my people 
To the land of silence vast; 
Taught them arts of peace and ended 
All their wanderings of the past. 
Deftly now I trace the figures, 

This of joy and that of woe; 

And I leave an open gate-way 
For liie Dau to come and go. 

Note: There is an irregularity in every design 
woven into a Navajo blanket, thus leaving a place for 
the “Dau” or spirit of the blanket to go out and in. 



Sixty-two 










ARROW-HEADS 

Bit by bit with tireless effort. 

Was the hard flint flaked to form 
Tip for shaft and spear-head 
Long ago. 

Time was counted naught in those days, 
And the end sufficed the needs 
Of the patient worker 
For his bow. 

Skilled in craft of plain and mountain, 
He must ever be alert, 

In the haunts of bison, 

Or of deer. 



Sixty-three 











On the shores of lake and river, 

Trod his moccasin’d foot, 

As he sought shy quarry 
For his spear. 

Lithe of limb with might of muscle, 
Swiftly wends he o’er the portage, 
Shoulders bearing lightly 
His canoe. 

Should he meet a wily foeman, 

As he treads the darksome glades 
His the need to dare then 
And to do. 

Thoughts like these come as we wander 
O’er the fallowed fields and find 
In our path an old 
Arrow-head. 



Sixty-four 











And we form in fervid fancy, 

As we scan th’ enduring flint, 
A measure of those brave 
Warriors dead. 



Sixty-five 










AGENCY POLICE 

I 

Big-Knife. 

Joe Bigknife he’s liv’d ova’ on a Spring 
Riva’ 

He’s had ferry at th’ 01’ Jim Charley 
Ford. 

Joe, he’s tallest one of them Injun 
Police, 

An’ if he’s sed it somethin’ he’s mean it 
eva’ word, 

Tho’ he don’ talk it all a time, 
eitha’. 

His house it’s jus’ ’bout half a mile 
’way 



Sixty-six 














From ferry an’ the ford, it’s by th’ hill. 

If riva’s up, he’s at th’ house, could seen 
it cornin’ team; 

Cornin’ otha’ way, they holla’, an’ jus’ 
wait until 

Joe, he’s come took ’em ova’ on th’ 
ferry. 

It’s summa’ time, evenin’, it’s a fella’ 
cornin’ south, 

He’s comin down to riva’, stop, an’ give 
a shout. 

Joe, he’s answa’ from th’ house, but he’s 
kin’ a slow, 

Man, he’s got big hurry, try th’ ford, 
an’ jus’ pull out, 



Sixty-seven 











When Joe, he’s cornin’ down to th’ 
riva’. 

Joesedit: “Whiteman, you too hurry. 
Don’ I sed it 

I come all a time if you holla’? I mean 
it what I say.” 

An’ he’s pull it out his gun, then sed it 
‘notha’ ’gen: 

“Now turn it ‘roun’ you wagon, you go 
back ’gen otha’ way, 

It’s kin’ a deep, but ’spec’ you 
make it, anyhow. 

“I come ova in a boat, prit’ soon, an’ 
brought you back.” 

’At’s what he’s done it, Joe, an’ fella’ 
sed: “How much?” 



Sixty-eight 











Joe sed it: “Keep it you’ money, white 
man; nex’ time 

Don' hollered, you don’ want a me come, 
cause such 

Kin’ a way, I don’t like it that kin’. 

“Dam’ fool, sometimes drowned you 
wagon, eva’thing, 

Tryin’ cross a riva, when it’s wata’ it’s 
too deep. 

Now betta’ pull it out, you got so hurry. 
Betta’ drive it on quick, cause mebbe I 
can’t keep 

From sayin’ somethin’ ’fo’ you go ” 



Slaty-Hoe 











AGENCY POLICE 
II 

High Waters. 

Bearskin, he’s live down on Grand 
Riva’, 

Gilstrap Ferry, on ol’ Military Road, 
Goin’ south, down to 01’ Fort Gibson. 
It’s been lots a rainin’, ’bout one week. 
Bearskin, he’s in Seneca, he’s tradin’, 
Talkin’ ’bout a weather with Murdock, 
Bearskin, he’s sed it: 

“Oh, rain just’ like a hell; 

Fall down jus’ like pour out a bucket. 
Riva’ it’s a high like a tree.” 



Seventy 







AGENCY POLICE 
III 

Winney. 

It’s Winney, he’s one a them Injun Po- 
leez, 

Sometimes he’s got kin’ a braggin’ way. 

It’s a bunch a fellas stanin’ out by a 
trees, 

An’ Winney he’s tole ’em one day: 

“I neva’ did cock it whiteman on my pis¬ 
tol, yet.” 

Notha’ 'Gen. 

It’s issue day at Agency, an’ all them 
fellas on hand, 

Winney, jus’ kin’ a braggin’, he’s talkn’ 
’bout Splitlog Band: 



Seventy-on* 










“Y’ oughta’ heard it, maybe pooty moo- 
sics, 

Me, I play it secon’ alto, jus’ easy to 
blow. 

Whitetree, he’s got it, that b-i-g drum, 

He’s hit ’im, ’bout bust ’im, it’s go bum, 
bum, bum. 

We got it lit’l book, lots a tune, Nellie 
Gray, 

An’ Red an’ White an’ Blue, 

An’ tha’ Gran’fatha Clocks, he’s a 
dandy. 

Bes’ one of all of it tho’, le’s see, it’s 
lumba’ eight, 

It’s a p-o-o-t-y one, you bet’cha: 



.Seventy -two 








Yankey Dooley; sweet as fo’ honey, 
ain’t it, Whitetree? 

Note: He intended to say, “I never did cock my 
pistol on a white man yet To understand, insert 
pause after “on” 



Seventy-three 


























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